


You're A Punk

by indievous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky is a jerk, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Riley is dead, Steve is a punk, so much sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indievous/pseuds/indievous
Summary: Bucky returned home from Afghanistan almost a year ago with a shiny new arm and copious amounts of emotional trauma. Steve is just some scrawny little punk with an endless list of health problems and a mouth that gets him into trouble more often than not, but Bucky can't seem to shake him off. He's not even sure that he wants to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm winging this. Wish me luck.

Growing up in New York City, Bucky was used to these kinds of crowds. He could navigate through them with ease on a good day and only suffer mild irritation. 

On a good day.

Today, however, was not one of those. The streets were alive with thousands of tourists decked out in patriotic colors, and Bucky was a lone wolf clad in black and desperately trying to get home before the fireworks started and he lost his final shred of sanity.

He would not lose his head today. He'd been mentally preparing himself for weeks.

Well, trying to, anyway.

Eventually, he gave up trying to make his way down a main street and pushed a rather large man out of his way so he could duck down an alley that (thankfully) was significantly less crowded. And now that his personal bubble had re-inflated, he was aware of the way his heart jumped like kernels turning into popcorn.

He leaned against the brick wall of the building to the right of him and willed his legs to keep supporting his weight. His left arm was aching despite it being metal and therefore unable to do so.

Phantom pain. That's what the squirrelly female doctor had told him after he'd lost the limb. He'd feel that for a long time. But it would go away eventually.

The emotional trauma, however? Bucky wasn't so sure that would ever go away. Even if his therapist said otherwise.

His heart was beginning to slow down and breathing was getting easier, so he pushed himself off of the wall and looked around and where he was. 

Fuck. He'd wandered into a bad alleyway. He wasn't surprised to see a homeless guy sleeping by the dumpster. Well, he looked like he was sleeping. Maybe he was dead. 

Before Bucky could think himself back into another panic attack, he stepped around the man and made a beeline for the street. He was calmer now, but he still needed to get home before dark. Dark meant fireworks, and fireworks were a horrible trigger of his. He found that out on New Year's Eve.

Quickening his pace, he made way down the sidewalk, ignoring the lost tourists that tried to call to him for help. Why they decided asking an angry looking man wearing all black clothes despite the harsh July weather was a good idea, he didn't want to know. And a small part of him felt guilty for dodging them so harshly, but again...

Today. Was. Not. A. Good. Day.

He did suppose it could be worse, however. He could be being beat up by a group of teenagers like that blond kid across the street.

Wait. What?

Bucky hadn't realized his eyes started to wander again, and stopped fast when his brain registered what was happening.

There was, in fact, a small blond guy getting sacked half to death by three bigger guys across the street in an alley not unlike the one he was just in.

Now, Bucky was used to fights like these. He saw people tearing other people apart on a daily basis here in the city. But this was different. The blond kid knew he was outnumbered and no match for even one of those guys but he was fighting back.

Bucky felt a pang of respect and worry for the strange kid, and he wouldn't be able to sleep at night if he didn't do something. That's why he crossed the street in front of an oncoming taxi, flipped the driver the bird like it was his fault for nearly hitting him, and used his metal fist to deliver a satisfyingly sharp punch to one of the males' heads.

“Who the fuck--” Another one started to say, but Bucky didn't let him finish. He socked the guy in the stomach with his flesh hand and kicked his legs out from under him as he doubled over. The third one stared in pure shock before dragging the unconscious guy away. Smart.

“Get the hell out of here.” Bucky threatened the one on the ground, kicking him hard to get him moving. “Pick on someone your own size.”

He waited until the three figures were out of sight before he turned to the blond on the ground, panting heavily and clutching his ribs.

“You okay, kid?”

“You didn't have to do that.” The kid snapped, and Bucky rose an eyebrow. “I had him on the ropes.”

Bucky snorted. “Sure you did. That's why you're on the ground right now and two of those three guys walked away. A simple thank you is all you needed to say, kid.”

“I ain't a kid!” Blondie hissed, hauling himself to his feet like he was trying to make a point and glaring up at him. His eyes were a deep blue color, but they didn't look good coated in anger. “I can fight my own damn battles.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky was not at all convinced. “Okay, well, sorry for wasting my time then. You're obviously quite capable of taking on guys three times your size. My bad. Have a good holiday, Blondie.”

He turned away from the kid then, steam bubbling up inside of him like a boiling tea kettle. He knew it was stupid to get pissed off over, but he couldn't help it. The kid could at least be grateful. Bucky didn't have to step in and help, he could have just let him be killed. 

Why do I even try being a good person?

“Your arm.” 

“What?” Bucky stopped walking and turned around, eyes narrowing at Blondie. 

“It's metal. Why?”

Another snort. “You're awfully nosy for some punk who couldn't even thank me for saving his sorry ass five minutes ago.”

Blondie rolled his eyes. “Fine. Thanks. Why's your arm metal?”

Bucky knew he didn't have to explain himself to anyone, let alone some stranger. Why he decided to right then and there might always be a mystery to him. He could blame it on his PTSD, maybe. Maybe his panic attack from earlier was still messing with his brain. Whatever the case may be, he found himself opening his mouth to speak.

“Lost it overseas. Afghanistan, ten months ago. Got this thing from some rich guy who invented prosthetics for wounded veterans.”

Blondie was now staring at him with interest, and Bucky couldn't help but think that he looked rather cute when he wasn't scowling. Gah. Don't think like that!

“You served?” He whispered, and there was a hint of envy in his voice. “Wow... God, you're lucky. I wanted to – I tried, even – to enlist but they denied me. Five times, actually. I-I'm just too sick. And weak.”

Something twitched inside Bucky's chest, and he hated the feeling. Was this pity? He hadn't felt this for a long time.

“Five tries, huh? You must be really dedicated.”

“It's only the right thing to do.” Blondie sighed, wringing his bloody hands together. “All those men and women over there giving their lives so that we can be free. I got no right to do any less than them.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. He felt oddly touched by the kid's words. Yeah, sure, people called him a hero for coming out alive from everything he did – the explosion, the torture, spending a month crawling through a desert trying to find his battalion – but he didn't feel like a hero. He felt like he shouldn't be alive. How is that heroic?

“What's your name, soldier?” He asked softly, the right corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

“Steve Rogers, sir.” The kid answered, and he stepped forward with his hand outstretched. He, too, was now grinning slightly. “Who are you?”

“Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.” He replied, and the way the words fell from his lips almost instinctively was bittersweet to him. “Mostly everyone calls me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” Steve repeated, nodding his small head. “Okay, Bucky. Hey, can I get you some coffee or something? I feel bad, uh, for being an ass about earlier. It's the right thing to do.”

Bucky pondered this for a moment. His head was screaming at him to get home, because it was nearing 5pm and the fireworks would start in just four hours. He didn't want to have another attack in front of this kid, who seemed to look at him like he really was a hero and not the monster he thought himself to be. How long had it been since he'd done anything with anyone, though? Sam was miles away in DC, fighting through his own trauma. Natasha was AWOL and had been for months. It hit him right then just how alone he really was.

“Sure.” He heard himself respond, and hoped he wouldn't regret it later. “That sounds great.”


	2. Chapter 2

Bucky found himself wondering why he decided to follow the kid – Steve – anywhere outside of that alley, let alone a coffee shop. For all he knew, the weak act could be a sham. Steve could be some kind of secret agent sent to kill him.

His eyes flitted to the blond, who was walking beside him with his gaze on the sidewalk. He cursed under his breath as Steve nearly smacked into a woman in front of them and pulled him away just in time.

“Sorry.” Steve mumbled.

Definitely not a secret agent.

“S'okay.” Bucky said back, and looked up as the smell of coffee filled his nose. His stomach rumbled as well, and he suddenly couldn't remember if he'd eaten today.

Probably not.

“This is my favorite place to get coffee.” The blond admitted, chuckling up at the rusty, vintage sign. “It's not very new, or popular, but I used to come here a lot...”

Steve trailed off then, and Bucky supposed he was meant to say something. 

“It's... Cute.”

Cute? What the hell, man? Since when is that in your vocabulary?

Bucky must have been visibly scowling, because the next thing he knew, Steve was doubled over laughing. It was such a beautiful sound that he couldn't help but smile, and then quickly caught himself for doing so. 

He just met this kid, for God sakes.

“After you.” He muttered when the guy stopped laughing, holding the door open so he could enter first. Steve nodded in thanks and ducked inside with Bucky right behind him. They found a little table to sit at in the very back corner, much to the soldier's relief.

“You started doing that after you came back, didn't you?”

Steve's voice broke him out of a reverie he didn't even know he was in, and Bucky blinked at the guy in confusion. “What?”

“Looking around, making sure you know exactly who's around and what they're doing at all times,” Steve said with a small shrug, like it was nothing that he noticed the behavior. “Always on your guard.”

Frowning, Bucky dropped his gaze to his steaming mug. He didn't even realize he was doing it, but now that Steve said something he was aware of a dark skinned man with a cappuccino by the counter, of the woman with the small child sitting seven and a half feet away from them chattering away on her cell. The barista was wearing a necklace with a cross hanging off of it. 

How had he taken in so many details so quickly?

“You didn't know you were doing it.” Steve commented quietly, and it wasn't a question. But his tone held a trace of pity, and Bucky hated it with a passion. 

“So why were you wandering around the bad part of the city by yourself?” He asked quickly, not even bothering to change the subject discreetly. His time spent in active duty combat was not something he wanted to revisit in public. 

Now Steve was frowning, but he sighed and shrugged. “Wanted to go for a walk I guess, clear my head. Honestly didn't even realize where I ended up.”

Bucky's eyebrow furrowed. “That's dangerously ignorant, Steve.”

“Yeah, well,” He said, and he suddenly sounded irritated. “If I want to go for a walk on my birthday, I'll go. Not like I have anything else to do.”

“It's your birthday?” Bucky echoed.

“All day.” Steve said with a dry chuckle, as if he were trying to mask how he was really feeling. Bucky could see it, though. And he suddenly felt more pity for the guy. No one wants to be beat up in an alley on their birthday. 

“Why aren't you with your friends? Or your family?”

Briefly, Steve glanced up at him. Bucky's skin prickled at the emotion in those blue eyes, and he suddenly had the urge to grab the blond stranger and hug him tight. Steve didn't even need to say anything else; the soldier just knew.

“Oh...”

“My only friend lives in DC. And he has his own life. I couldn't ask him to leave it behind for me.”

“Steve, it's your birthday. You deserve to have your friend around today.”

The small male shrugged and took a cautious sip of his coffee. “Eh.”

Neither spoke for a while after that. Bucky found himself watching Steve when he wasn't looking. He couldn't help but feel for him, and that was something he hadn't done since he returned from Afghanistan. In fact, he hadn't felt much of anything since he'd gotten home. Hadn't even talked this much to someone besides his parents, sister, or therapist. He didn't understand why he was sitting so comfortably across from this guy who was basically a stranger to him. Who was just some guy he'd saved from being killed on the street.

And he still didn't fully understand why he'd stepped in.

Nonetheless, he was sitting across a table from a blond guy named Steve Rogers who was small and weak, but it was his birthday and Bucky felt like – no, he wanted to – staying with him for the rest of the night to make up for the seemingly shitty day he was currently having.   
Even if the countdown to the fireworks was ticking away in his head like a bomb.

Ha. 

“So,” Bucky said, breaking the prolonged silence, “What do you want to do after this?”

Steve looked up at him, one brow perked in confusion but his eyes mirroring hope. “What do you mean? I thought we'd just have coffee and then part ways...”

“It's your birthday, man!” Bucky reminded him, flashing his teeth in a smile. “And since you said your friend isn't around...”

“I couldn't ask you to do that for me. There's probably a hundred other things you'd rather do than hang out with me.”

Bucky snorted. “Good thing I offered then, huh?”

Steve didn't say anything, but he was staring at Bucky as if he were trying to decide if this was a game or not. Like he didn't know if the brunet was kidding and was really planning to throw him in a trash can as soon as they left. Or worse – completely abandon him.

“Come on,” Bucky whispered, leaning toward him. “You deserve it.”

After another small break of silence, Steve sighed and picked up his coffee, draining the last of it. Setting it back on the table, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said, “Okay. Okay. I'm in.”

Bucky couldn't help but grin, and he slid his own empty mug away from him. “Thatta boy! Where do you wanna go?”

The blond seemed to ponder this for a moment, but Bucky could pinpoint the exact moment an idea came to his head because his eyes lit up. In the same amount of time that they did, they went out like someone had flipped the switch on them.

“You're gonna think it's dumb.” He said, trying to be nonchalant.

“No, I won't,” Bucky said back, brow arched. “What is it?”

A sigh. Some silence. Bucky was beginning to think that the guy wanted to go sing karaoke with a bunch of homeless people or something.

“The Metropolitan Art Museum.” Steve muttered under his breath, and Bucky could see color creeping into his pale cheeks. “I've always wanted to go, but my mom was too sick and Dad was already gone. Then I got sick.”

There was that damn pity-feeling again in his gut. But Steve was wrong – Bucky didn't find it dumb at all. He actually loved the museum and had been there with his sister many times before. The art was beautiful and he used to make up stories with Becca about what was happening in the pieces.

“He's screaming because the wind blew his hair away.” Becca giggled, pointing at the famous painting. “See? He's bald.”

“No, no,” A younger, more carefree version of Bucky said as he shook his head. He gestured with his left hand – still made of him and not metal. “The wind didn't blow it away. He's surrounded by water, right? He's obviously at the beach. A seagull snatched his toupee up and flew away with it.”

“Same thing!” 

Bucky was smiling to himself, the sounds of their childish laughter echoing in his brain. What he wouldn't do to have those days back again.

“It's not dumb.” He said firmly, and stood from his chair. “Let's go. And stay close to me. I'm not saving your sorry ass from a fight again.”

-x-

The look on Steve's face when they arrived to the museum was priceless, and Bucky kind of wished he had his phone so he could capture this moment forever. Which was kind of stupid, he thought to himself, because he still didn't really know this kid.

“You haven't even gone inside yet and you already look like you're seeing the sun for the first time.” Bucky laughed, and nudged Steve forward. “It's even better on the inside.”

He wasn't lying. And he'd never seen anyone look so immersed in art, not even himself. This had been one of his own safe places in lighter times, and he had to admit that being back was nostalgic for him. His war days seemed to fade away for the time being.

Steve didn't talk much as they walked around, but for some reason that suited Bucky just fine. He liked watching the expressions on the guy's face grow brighter and brighter yet. It was refreshing, getting to see someone genuinely happy for once. 

He certainly never saw that look on himself anymore.

After they'd explored every inch of the museum, they sank onto benches outside the building and let the air hang between them. The sun was down and the sky was dark, and Bucky couldn't help but stare up and count the few visible stars like he used to.

“Thank you.” Steve said, causing him to remember reality. “Really....That was the greatest day of my life.”

For an unsurprising reason, Bucky didn't think he could argue with that.

“You're welcome. I... I liked making someone happy again.”

Steve grinned with teeth, and Bucky shivered a little despite the warm July evening.

“Can we hang out ag-”

But Steve never finished his sentence. Because at that moment, the first firework detonated, and Bucky's whole body locked up. His mind ran away, and he no longer knew the voice next to him, calling out his name in worry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but I promise the plot will get better soon. Remember, I'm winging this.~

The air around him was thick with dust, heavy with the scent of blood. Bucky held a gun in his hand half the length of his own body. He couldn't see much through the filthy lenses of his goggles, but he was able to make out the shape of something small being thrown in his direction.

He jumped out of the way just as the bomb exploded. The soldier to the right of him was not so lucky.

Bucky dry-heaved as the man's blood splattered his uniform like paint.

“Bucky!”

There was a voice. It was clear despite the chaos happening around him, but its tone might as well have been the alarm sounding the attack. 

Another bomb struck. Debris shot through the air and lodged itself in his uniform, deep enough to cut his skin.

His heart was pounding. He was going to die.

“Bucky, look at me! You're okay, you're in New York, you're with me--”

Steve?

The voice was no longer foreign. He had a name. But why was Steve here with him? Why did he think they were in New York? Bucky hadn't been there for two years...

“Steve.” He croaked through dry lips, and dropped the gun. Bloodshot eyes darted around madly for the guy, but he couldn't find him. Fuck. If he didn't get him to safety, he was going to die. Steve was no match for war and –

“BUCKY!”

He gasped so hard he sent himself into a coughing fit. Bucky's eyes opened a second time, and the scene disappeared. He wasn't in Afghanistan, and though the air was not much cleaner, he wasn't inhaling dust. The smell of blood was faint in his nose, but it was all just a memory. Steve was right. They were in New York.

And Bucky was collapsed against the rear of a building. Steve's hands were gripping his wrists, those blue eyes staring at him with fear and worry. Fireworks were popping in the near distance.

“Shit.” He swore, and took one of his hands from Steve and mopped his sweaty hair from his face. “S-Steve, get me out of here. P-please.”

The blond didn't hesitate. He struggled a bit, trying to get Bucky onto his feet, and hauled him away from the direction of the fireworks. Bucky tried to keep his eyes open, tried to support as much of his own weight as he could, but it was hard when his whole body was shaking and tears were leaking from his eyes. 

It's just fireworks. 

There aren't any bombs.

Just fireworks.

Fireworks.

They walked forever, and at one point Steve had to shove him onto the subway. Bucky didn't know just how long it had taken to get there, but when they collapsed into a small, foreign apartment in Brooklyn, he felt it had been at least a year. Maybe longer.

He didn't move from where he'd collapsed. After pulling himself up so that he was sitting, he dropped his head into his hands and panted. Popping still sounded in his ears, but he couldn't tell if he was just imagining it or not. He hoped he was.

Once again, Steve was crouched over him. His own face was contorted with exhaustion, but the concern was still there. There was pressure on Bucky's wrist – Steve had taken hold of him again. Grounding him.

“Bucky.”

It was only one word, but it was enough. He swallowed once, twice, and a third time. Trying to clear the knot in his throat.

“I'm sorry.” He rasped when his pulse started to slow. “I thought I could handle it.”

“Why didn't you say anything?” 

Bucky shrugged. His shoulders weighed a ton. “You were having fun. Didn't want to cut it short.”

Steve stared at him as if he'd grown three more heads to match his own. “Seriously? You went through all that for me?”

He didn't say a word, but apparently it was enough for Steve. He let go of Bucky's wrist and sank backward, running a hand through his hair.

“I don't know if I'm happy that you cared so much or angry that you put yourself through something like that.”

Bucky ran his tongue over his dry lips, buying himself some time. His brain was still sparking, trying to put itself back together, and he didn't know what to say. All he wanted was to go the fuck to bed.

“Are we... Where are we?”

“My apartment.” Steve sighed, and looked up at him. “I don't know where you live.”

“Right.”

And... cue the awkward. Bucky felt horrible for breaking down like that in front of someone strange. He felt embarrassed and like an idiot, and part of him was angry that he didn't just go home hours ago like he said he would. But he wasn't angry at Steve. It was his birthday and Bucky just wanted to be a good person for once. Why did he always end up tearing himself apart when he tried to be one?

“Sorry.” He said again, and subconsciously curled into himself. Steve noticed this and shook his head, sighing softly.

“If you don't stop apologizing, I'm going to punch you in the teeth,” He warned, despite a small smiling on his lips. “It probably won't even hurt and I might break a knuckle in the process, but I'll do it.”

The corners of Bucky's lips twisted up into what he guessed resembled a pained smile. He'd collected himself enough now to sit up straight and wipe his face of the sweat and tears. 

“Better.” Steve commented, and then climbed to his feet. Held out a hand. Bucky took it and stood, his legs still shaky but able to keep him upright. “Can I get you anything?”

A new life. Bucky wanted to say it, but he shook his head instead.

“Actually, I should probably – should get home.” He mumbled, not looking at Steve as he began to back towards the front door. “I, uh... Thank you for getting me out of there. Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Wait!” Steve said quickly, and the urgency in his voice made Bucky feel worse. The blond scrambled over to his desk and fumbled for a pen and paper, handing the latter over seconds later. A phone number was scrawled on it in rushed, messy handwriting.

“Just in case, uh, you ever need anything. Or want to talk.” He added, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I had fun tonight.”

Bucky still couldn't make eye contact, but he nodded. “Thanks... Me, too.”

He couldn't shake the feeling of Steve's sad gaze burning into his back as he left the building.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one night because I wrote it and am too lazy to wait a few days. Also because Destiny is bae. <3

Bucky had stuffed Steve's number in his jeans pocket, which he'd stripped off as soon as he'd gotten home and thrown into a corner of his room. He didn't touch them for days.

Instead, he tried to forget that night. It wasn't because of Steve - no, Steve was great. He felt like an idiot, like he was weak, and he didn't think he deserved to have someone like Steve in his life.

Which was stupid, but he wouldn't believe so.

He spent the first two days laying in bed and moping. His left arm was locked underneath his side, body pressing down on it as if he could crush it into oblivion. Erase the material mark of his weakness.

But, of course, he was not so lucky. The only result of his actions were metal indentations in his skin. 

On the third day of his solitude, his sister tried to break his door down.

Literally.

“For fuck's sake, James,” She hissed when he finally opened the door, not even phased by the glare on his face. “Why haven't you called? And why do you smell like a fucking sewer?”

Bucky knew she was angry, because no one in his family ever called him James unless they were pissed. And she was staring at him with a look that could kill a grizzly bear. He suddenly felt a twang of guilt; they'd all been worried about him ever since he came back from the war, his mother and Becca especially. Everyone objected when he refused to live at home, but settled when he'd promised that he would call every day.

Looks like he broke that promise.

“Sorry.” He said honestly, and held open the door to let her in. With her nose turned up she entered, making a brisk path to the couch and plopping down.

“Mom's freaking out.” She said when he'd joined her, taking no care to sugarcoat it. 

Bucky sighed. “I should've known. I'm sorry, Becca. It's been a rough few days.”

Becca watched him for a while, and her expression turned sympathetic. “We thought the Fourth would do this to you. But we didn't want to talk to you about it and piss you off. Maybe we should've.”

“No,” He snapped, and then got control of himself. “I wouldn't have listened. You know why.”

Becca did know, but (thankfully) she didn't say it out loud. He didn't need to hear it. 

“I just wanted to make sure you weren't de- were okay, that's all.” 

She was sad, and Bucky could hear it in her voice. Would he ever stop feeling like a piece of shit?

“I'm sorry.”

“I know.”  
They stared at each other for a few moments, just long enough for Bucky to notice that his little sister was gone. Her eyes weren't full of childhood innocence anymore, and in them he could see that she was someone strong, who was forced to be because she dealt with far too much for a girl just shy of twenty-one. She didn't deserve to have a brother like him.

“Are you okay?” She asked, and Bucky tried not to imagine the way she said the very same words when they were kids and he fell out of a tree in their backyard.

“Always.” He said without thinking, then wished he could tell the truth.

Becca looked at him skeptically, but she didn't push him. She stood up and moved to leave, and he followed her to the door.

“Promise you'll call Mom later?”

“I promise.”

His sister cocked her head to the side, raising her eyebrows as if she needed more proof he would see the promise through. He exhaled sharply and held out his pinky. She took it in her own with a smile and then dropped it a second later.

“Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Probably won't.” He confessed, and to his relief she laughed.

“I know. Love you, Buck.”

“Love you, too.”

Then she left and he was all alone again. But seeing his sister stirred something in him, and he managed to shower and make a sandwich before he was hit with the crippling desire to return to his bed. He didn't.

He went for the couch instead, turning his TV on for background noise so that he wouldn't feel as lonely while surfing the internet. Facebook was dead, all of his old school friends too busy living their own lives to bother plastering it all over social media. He got a kick out of a Vine compilation that his Aunt Ida posted and snorted to himself for several minutes before wiping his tears and moving on.

Tumblr was a little more active, although he quickly closed out of it after seeing a professional shot of fireworks over Coney Island. Nope. He didn't need that in his life.

But his eyes roamed toward his bedroom, where Steve's number lay crumpled in his jeans. He wanted to reach out to him, even just send a quick text to say 'hey.' It was awfully far away, though, and he used that as an excuse to return to his computer.

His focus was gone, though. All he could think of was Steve's face when they were in the museum, and then how scared he looked when Bucky freaked out. He pushed the computer away and put his face in his hands. 

“I'm such an idiot.” He whispered to himself, and clenched his metal fist. Wondered what would happen if he tried to rip it off, then decided that probably wasn't a good idea and stopped glaring at it so harshly.

It could be worse, he supposed. He could be learning how to tie his shoes with one hand and cutting the left sleeves off of his hoodies. 

-x-

At ten after seven, his phone chimed. It was from Natasha, and he smiled.

'Back in town for a few days. You home?'

'yeah'

'Good. Open your front door.'

His eyebrow perked, but he wasn't surprised. He tossed his phone to the side and made for the door, pulling it open to reveal his favorite redhead. There was a big grin on her face that only widened as she launched herself into his arms, and he hugged her as tightly as he could.

“I missed you.” He mumbled into her hair, and felt her chuckle.

“I missed you too, pal.” She pulled away and stepped back, doing a once-over because she hadn't seen him in two months and had a tendency to go Mother Hen on him. “You look decent. Doing alright without Sam and I?”

He nodded and shut the door when she was inside, and the way she plopped down on the couch made him feel like she hadn't been gone for as long as she was. His mood was already ten times lighter. “Better now that you're back.”

“Not for long, Bucky.” Nat said, her lips turned down. “Only a few days. Then it's overseas again for me.”

His face fell, but he sat down next to her and let his head drop onto her shoulder. “Why do you have to work for the Agency again?”

“Hey, you won't be complaining when we're seventy and I invite you to stay at my summer house in Tahiti with Clint and I.”

“....You're right.”

“I know I am.” Bucky wasn't even looking at her, but he could just see the shit-eating grin on her face. His eyes fluttered shut as her fingers started moving through his hair. “You need a hair cut.”

“Or I can let it grow out and become the male version of Rapunzel. That sounds fun.”

Natasha laughed. “You'll go viral.”

“That's the plan.”

Silence fell between them, but it was okay. Bucky couldn't remember the last time he was alone with his best friend, because before she left there was a party that lasted three days and involved Sam, Clint, and Nat's family. Not that it wasn't fun, and not that he didn't love his other friends, but sometimes he missed when it was just them. When they were in high school and nothing had gone wrong yet.

“I smell smoke. Are you thinking too hard again?” She joked, and Bucky snorted as he sat up.

“I just missed you, that's all.”

“For some reason, I don't think that's the only thing on your mind.” Nat angled her body towards him and tucked her legs under her. “Come on, spill it. Then I'll tell you all about what Clint and I did when we weren't-”

“No!” He cried desperately, clapping his hands over his ears. “I don't want to know!”

Natasha bursted into giggles, but when she settled she pried his fingers away and looked at him seriously. “I mean it. Out with it.”

Steve's face flashed into his mind again, and he considered telling her some bullshit story before he realized that she'd just see right through it. So he told her everything that happened that night, starting with beating up the guys in the alley to going to the museum with Steve and to having a panic attack because people were celebrating America's birthday. Natasha had always been a great listener and didn't interrupt him once, but she was ready to interrogate him when he finished talking.

“You have a crush on him, don't you?”

“What?!” He almost shouted, and then shook his head feverishly. There was a blush crawling onto his cheeks and he hated it. “No. God, no, I just met the kid. And I might never see him again anyway. He gave me his number but I haven't-”

“Text him!” 

Well, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Nat, I can't. I feel so weird about the whole thing. He probably thinks I'm some loser.”

Scoffing, she picked up his phone and handed it to him. “After the description you just gave me of the guy, I bet he's still swooning over not being alone on his birthday. I wouldn't be surprised if he's been sitting by his phone for the past seventy-two hours, just waiting for a call or even a text...”

Bucky glared at her. He knew exactly what she was doing – trying to guilt trip him into texting Steve. And if she thought that it was working... She was right.

“Only if you stay the night.”

“Yes!” She grinned, practically leaping off the couch. “I'll order pizza. Go text him!”

He spent about five minutes staring at his phone screen, the text typed out and ready to be sent. It was only when Nat knocked on his door that he jumped and accidentally hit send that the deed was done.

His phone chimed a minute later.

'Hey! I was wondering when you'd text me.'

Bucky sighed. 

Natasha was always right.


End file.
